


Many Good Reasons

by Cryptographic_Delurk



Category: Yu-Gi-Oh!
Genre: Bitterness, Francophilia, House Sitting, M/M, Post-Canon, TGIF
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-07
Updated: 2018-12-07
Packaged: 2019-09-13 17:58:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16897326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cryptographic_Delurk/pseuds/Cryptographic_Delurk
Summary: On a Friday night, Ryou catches the train and rides an hour out to the wealthy suburb surrounding Versailles, where Isis and Rishid have asked him to ‘housesit’. What ensues is movies, crepes, and The Game of Life.





	Many Good Reasons

**Author's Note:**

> Here’s some incredibly Francophile Ryou & Malik content for you guys. Includes exceedingly brief mention of racism and hate crimes.  
>   
> Please Read & Relax.

If it had been Malik asking, Ryou might have said “no”.

Well, no, Ryou didn’t exactly have a good track record of saying “no” to Malik either. But it was possible he might find the strength to put his foot down given some convergence of factors – how much he wanted to lay about at home and carve Monster World figurines on a Friday Night, how many cubic centimetres of loneliness and desperation were pumping through his body, and whether or not there was a strong enough westerly current in the English Channel.

But Malik had not asked him. Isis and Rishid had. And Isis and Rishid were actually good people, and so there went any pretence of refusal.

Malik would often talk about his siblings. His older sister, who he loved, even though he claimed she was a stifling and straight-laced bore. And their older brother, who Malik loved, even though he claimed Rishid was feeble minded and slow on the uptake. But Ryou would watch Malik dance between them, appealing to different sides of the household in an attempt to sneak away whatever it was he wanted. And Ryou would watch the way that Isis would shoot sardonic and patronising looks at Rishid anytime he caved and enabled whatever she had only just a moment earlier managed to put a stop to. And Ryou understood. Really Isis and Rishid were akin to spouses stuck together in a loveless marriage for their commitment to the upbringing of their child – a problem child who was now less of a child, but an increasingly troublesome adult that neither could bear to leave or throw out of the house. It was the very portrait of middle class discontent, and the least Ryou could do to ease their pain was spend a Friday night “housesitting” for them, as they attempted to recapture the lost love and grandeur of their youths.

And so, following an afternoon of summer classes and club meetings and laundry, Ryou packed some movies and board games into a shoulder bag. He caught the train from his crumbling apartment complex in the northeast corner of Paris, and rode an hour out to the wealthy suburb surrounding Versailles where Malik lived.

Isis worked for the museum, or as an ambassador of some sort. Ryou wasn’t quite sure what she did exactly, but she was important. Rishid was the stay-at-home dad. And Malik didn’t need to work at all, but he spent two days a week hocking trinkets at the entrance to the _Château_ – because Isis had been pressuring him to find some way to contribute to the household, and responding to her nagging by getting a job she couldn’t possibly respect was the best and most passive aggressive way of handling the situation. Also Malik was good at it. He enjoyed scamming tourists.

Ryou considered quite uncharitably that, if all of them were like Malik – rude and pompous and irreverent, with the power and leverage to skip all the intermediary steps and fall into a house with a white picket fence that the vast majority of Paris natives would never be able to afford… Yes, Ryou could understand a bit why the French rather hated Arabs and Egyptians.

(Although they rather didn’t like Bakura Ryou either, did they? Not that Japan or Britain had liked him either, each in their own way for their own reasons.)

Ryou felt bad for thinking all of this once he arrived at Malik’s place. Isis met him at the door. She was wearing an evening gown, with white gloves and a white leather clutch purse. If you looked closely, you could still see the place on the side of the house where Rishid had whitewashed over the hate graffiti some vandals had left a month ago. Not even Malik deserved that, but especially not Isis and Rishid. Isis and Rishid were good people, and Ryou was not. The least Ryou could do was not think hurtful things.

“Thank you for agreeing to watch the house,” Isis said. “There’s some rice and roasted squash in the fridge. And some salmon. And I know you like baking, so I stocked up on flour and butter. You’re welcome to anything you’d like.” She offered Ryou a key ring _._ “The key to the house.”

Ryou accepted it. He studied the keychain, where a blue and silver letter ‘B’ hung. “I’ll make sure to get it back to you safely at the end of the night,” he tried weakly.

“Don’t worry about it.” Isis snuffed that hope out like a light. “Rishid had that copy made for you to keep. You can even stay over if you want…” And then, at the risk of sounding too modern and lenient in her sensibilities- “Just don’t be up too late. Make sure to get your rest,” she chided.

Isis stowed her clutch purse under her arm. With both hands, she reached forward and straightened the collar on Ryou’s plaid shirt. She smoothed the straps of his shoulder bag and, with her gloves, polished the surface of the rainbow flag button he had pinned to it. Her face was intent as she erased the smudges.

Ryou blushed and tried hard not to fidget. _Of course she knew. Of course it had never been a secret to begin with, but-_

“I have some museum catalogues I’d like to show you sometime as well. Since you said you were interested in antiquity. Burial items.” Isis studied his face for a moment. “I’m just so glad that Malik has found such a kindly young fellow. Thank you for being such a good friend to him.” She tiptoed up and pressed a kiss to his cheek. “You’re a good boy.”

 _No, I’m not,_ Ryou thought. But it seemed too rude to verbalise his disagreement, so he endured.

Thankfully, Rishid followed out the door not long after. He was well put together, in a dress shirt and slacks. He said a couple of mumbled words in French or Japanese (Ryou couldn’t rightly tell) and clasped Ryou on the shoulder in a way that turned into a half hug.

And then they were off to the driveway, and pulling out in a Mini. Isis had claimed the driver’s seat, and was talking over Rishid. She would drop him where he needed to go first, and then take the car to her destination herself. Her instructions continued as she drove out into the street.

And Ryou was left on the porch, with Malik in the entryway – leaning against the doorframe in a way he no doubt thought was smooth.

Ryou sighed as he ducked under Malik’s arm and walked inside.

He could hear his own sigh echoed in Malik, and there was a moment’s pause before Malik shut the door and swivelled.

“So what’s on the schedule for tonight, Bakura?” Malik spoke in perfectly accented Japanese, and followed too close at his back. “Movie? Candlelit dinner? Moonlit walk in the park? Huh, Bakura?”

 _Ba-Ku-Ra_? Ryou found himself mouthing. He squinted in the darkness of the hall. So far as Ryou could tell, Malik had never mistaken him for The Spirit. But the way Malik’s familiarity had been passed like a baton to Ryou from his other self, without a single pause or fumble, left him ill at ease. Ryou didn’t answer. He turned abruptly at a junction in the hall, more from muscle memory than the ability to see where he was going, and entered the living room.

Since he had last been here, the bookshelf on the adjacent wall had been damaged. The frame had been pried away, and the top shelf tilted sideways into an unforgiving slope. A pile of books had been stacked up sideways on the shelf below in order to prop it back up. But it seemed a hasty job. There were several volumes scattered on the floor, and a dent in the wall above the shelf – the remnants of some tantrum.

The rest of the room stood serene though. The sofa, the television, a crisp mint carpet and beige walls. Ryou lifted his bag off his shoulder, and let it drop down on the carpet in the middle of the room. He held the strap loosely.

“So what do you have planned, Bakura?” Malik persisted. He tugged at the strap on his black tank top, and smiled smugly. “I guess you promised Isis and Rishid you’d housesit, so you won’t be taking me anywhere fancy.”

“…Babysit,” Ryou challenged. “I don’t think they mean for me to housesit so much as babysit.” He thought about how the words seemed soft and apologetic out loud, like he was trying to hide that he meant it to sting.

“Babysit, then,” Malik laughed. “Like a tutor. Then what did you bring along to further my education?”

Ryou relaxed. He squatted down and dug through his bag. A moment ago he wasn’t sure which of the movies he’d brought he wanted to watch, but now he found himself reaching for his favourite. Something whimsical, with a lot of sadness, and a small touch of love. He’d borrowed it from the university library half a dozen times, then lost it, paid to have it replaced, and then found it again.

“Are you hungry?” Ryou asked, looking up at Malik as he gripped the DVD in his hands.

“I don’t think so?” Malik seemed ponderous. Ryou couldn’t tell how much it was affected.

“What does that mean?”

“I don’t feel like eating, if that’s what you mean,” Malik said. “I’m just pretty sure I lost the opportunity for some witty double entendre.”

Ryou snorted. “You’ll get it next time, I guess.”

Malik waited patiently as Ryou fiddled with the DVD player. And the movie was thankfully a hundred minutes of Malik’s complete and absolute silence. With the overhead light off and the sunset dimming into night, it seemed like the two of them faded into a softer space where the film was the only reality – sweet dying voices, dusty warehouses, cobbled streets, a diner, an ambulance, bedsheets, and snow in the park. At some point Malik stretched his arm up and placed it strategically over the top of the sofa above Ryou’s head. There was a curl of black hair at his underarm.

Ryou considered for a second before accepting the invitation and leaning slightly into Malik’s chest. It seemed firm if not exceptionally well built, and Ryou turned his head to feel the difference between the black tank top and Malik’s bare skin, which seemed a bit sweaty, but didn’t really stink. It would be nice, thought Ryou, to see this kind of romantic movie with a boyfriend. One that was strong and handsome, like Malik, but also not like Malik. One that was perfect in every way.

Only, if there was a perfect boyfriend, he’d be way too good for Ryou, who was very, very not perfect. If there was a perfect boyfriend, he would waste no time dumping Ryou, who was really not a very good person at all.

Ryou ended up regretting the movie after all. Not so much for having lost himself in the atmosphere – Malik had let Ryou go without comment when the credits rolled and Ryou got up to retrieve the DVD. Malik only started at the spot against his chest that Ryou had vacated, like it vaguely confused him that it had been occupied to begin with.

Ryou regretted it because this movie was his favourite. He had watched it eight times previously while Malik, by his own admission, had never seen it before. Which meant it was only another opportunity for Malik to show off how much of an obnoxious genius he was. In a fit of eidetic memory, he had somehow memorised the very first song in the movie – a song he had heard only once over an hour ago – and was parroting it back to Ryou in perfect unblemished French. And it occurred to Ryou that, after years and months of studying, classes, travel, and being a university student at the finest establishment in Paris, he was not even remotely as fluent as Malik.

And Japanese was Ryou’s native language. And Malik was probably better than him at that too.

Ryou channelled his frustration into whipping the bowl of cream with extra force.

Malik bopped his head to the music in his head as he set up the game board. When he got to the chorus he leaned over and leered at Ryou:

_Je ne manque pas de bonnes raisons pour t'aimer._

(I have my reasons for loving you.)

_Je ne vois pas pour quelles raisons te les donner._

(I just don't see any reason to share them with you.)

..

Ryou felt his face heat. “Would you quit that?!” Ryou hissed and waved the whisk at Malik, who dodged easily.

“What?!” Malik protested. “Singing’s nice, isn’t it? People sing when they’re happy. I’ll catch Isis and Rishid singing every now and again. I remember when my father used to, too.” He didn’t pause. “So, if anything, it means I’m happy and that I liked your movie. Your incredibly gay, _gay_ movie, full of gay, _gay_ people singing all the time. Even when they’re sad.”

When Ryou scowled, Malik only smiled back and resumed his song from the top.

There were half used sticks of butter on the counter. Eggshells. A dusty layer of flour and powdered sugar. A plate with the remainder of a serving of salmon and squash that Ryou had forced himself halfway through. He went to scrape the last one in a pile of crepes off the pan, and messily drizzled chocolate sauce over it.

Malik was singing about angels when Ryou returned to the countertop table. Ryou frowned as he set the stack of crepes, collected on one wide green ceramic plate, to the side of the game board between them. He grabbed the bowl of whipped cream, shook the whisk violently at the top of the stack, and felt vindicated when the cream landed with a satisfying plop. His eyes shot quickly to Malik, whose guard had dropped, and swatted the whisk at him again.

Malik leaned back, but not quickly enough. His voice faltered, and his song cut out as the whisk grazed the tip of his nose, and left a smear of whip cream. He looked cross eyed at the mess, before looking up to glare at Ryou, who felt his own lip curl disdainfully. Malik lifted a finger to wipe it away, which he then licked. Not the least bit seductively, Ryou noticed. Malik was missing a lot of openings tonight.

Malik scowled as he spun the wheel on the game board. “Alright, so I got the board and the bank and everything set up and all. Let’s go, how do we play?”

“Well…” Ryou took two blue pegs from the box and, after careful selection, placed one each in the yellow and purple cars. “We spin to see who goes first, and then the first thing you decide is whether or not you want to go to university or enter the work force right away. You get to select from a range of better paying jobs if you go to uni, but you’ll also start the game in debt.”

“We’ve already made those decisions, haven’t we?” Malik said unenthusiastically. He spun the wheel and arranged his toy car to head towards the university lane. “Might as well try something different, huh, Bakura? You shouldn’t go to uni in the game then. Try arguing the other side of the debate for once.”

“I don’t see why I should have to, if I don’t want to. Maybe I want to win this game.” But he chose the path opposite Malik anyhow.

“It doesn’t even make sense,” Malik said. “You’ve got a scholarship, and your father’s paying for the rest. It’s not as if going to university automatically means you’re going to be in debt. It just means you’ve got to spend hours poring over a bunch of boring library books.”

“It’s not boring,” Ryou said. Without heat, almost by rote. This was a discussion they had had before.

Malik harrumphed. “Also it’s not as if I couldn’t go to university anytime I wanted, so long as I felt like boring myself half to death. It’s not as if there’s an age cut-off. I’m sure Isis would be just _delighted_ and take care of shouldering the cost.”

Yes, no doubt she would. Malik also apparently had no concerns about whether or not he would be accepted by an admissions office in spite of being, for lack of a better word, home schooled. Not that Malik need be concerned. He was certainly intelligent enough. And Ryou only wondered at the kind of connections and influence that had Isis seated on the Supreme Council of Antiquities at age twenty.

“I don’t think it works like that for most people,” Ryou said quietly. He chose a firefighter career card, and went to cut the stack of crepes with his fork.

Malik harrumphed again, but chose not to say anything. Ryou continued explaining the rules, and they spent a few turns amassing wealth and family and debt. But Malik seemed in an increasingly foul mood. He was sulking, leaned over the game board, and had taken his fork and started stabbing the pile of crepes. Not eating them. Just stabbing.

“Looks like a pipe in my house broke and I have to pay repairs-” Ryou narrated, as he skimmed away some fake blue money from the top of his pile. When Malik refused to respond, except by prying up the corner of the crepe pile, like he was flaying the mass of them, Ryou lost his patience. “Look, are you feeling quite alright? Have you remembered to take your meds?”

“Yes,” Malik replied gloomily.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes!” Malik insisted. His eyes spun and landed to glare at Ryou.

Ryou lifted his hands up in surrender and let the subject drop. So long as Malik was sure.

They played another couple of turns. Malik’s wife had a child, and Malik forced a blue peg into the hole at the back of his car.

“Bills? Taxes? Stocks?” Malik complained. “What does any of this have to do with life? It certainly hasn’t got anything to do with mine. Isis is the one who takes care of all the finances.”

Ryou wondered how much Malik was purposefully grating on his patience. “Perhaps that says something about your own lack of responsibility,” he replied testily.

If anything, this only encouraged Malik more. “Oh, it has something to do with you and your life then?” he asked. He reached over and flicked his nail at the pink peg in Ryou’s car. “Then this is representative of the future you see for yourself? Plan to marry a woman someday?”

Ryou cleared his throat and focussed on spinning the wheel. “Well, I suppose some type of mutually beneficial arrangement isn’t entirely out of the question. But I’d assume not. How about _you_?” he spat.

“I don’t know,” Malik shrugged caustically. “But if I did marry a woman, I certainly wouldn’t be having any kids.” He flicked his nail at the child’s blue peg in his own car this time. “If Isis wants another brat around, she can take care of popping one out herself.”

Ryou frowned deeply. This seemed an unnecessarily crude and hostile way of putting things. And Isis was a good person, so she didn’t deserve it.

“What would I do with a kid?” Malik continued. “What could I teach it? Except how to carve out pieces of itself…”

Ryou softened. Yes, of course parenthood was a difficult topic for Malik. Perhaps if Ryou was a better person, he’d be more sensitive and understanding about that. In the meantime, he might as well keep his mouth shut and not do any more damage though. He shoved a couple of bites of crepes into his mouth, and tried to exude an environment of calm and quiet.

Malik seemed impervious to it. “ _Join a health club_?” he scoffed on his next turn, and when Ryou didn’t respond to this, he went further on the attack two turns later:

“I’m just saying, this isn’t a very Bakura-ish game.” Malik shook his head. “What, life is just about stocks and salaries? And you’re going to measure how much you’re ‘winning’ at it based on the amount of money you’ve amassed and how many offspring you’ve produced? Not very Bakura-y at all...” Malik smirked. “Isn’t this, like, your thing? Shouldn’t you and those people at your school club be complaining about how ‘heteronormative’ it is, or something?”

Yes, this was _his thing_ , and not Malik’s. And thus it wasn’t Malik’s place to tell him what he should find offensive. “I like this game,” Ryou said coldly. He probably should have stopped there, but he continued on defensively. “It might not be as good as Monster World, but it’s a classic. It’s iconic. I’ve played it a lot with Yuugi and the others, and it’s always a fun time.”

“Of course,” Malik said easily, a card wobbling in his hand. “And you and _Yuugi and the others_ are such wonderful friends, with whom you feel endlessly comfortable with and never alienated by. Which is why, I’m sure, you never complained to them about all the women and childbearing in all the times you’ve played this game.”

Ryou thought for a moment that he would, very much, like to see Malik hurt for that comment. But he quickly reigned himself in, if not in time to remove the warning snarl from his voice. “The Spirit of the Millennium Ring did not accurately portray to you the nature of my relationship with my friends. So I’ll thank you to not make insinuations about what you know nothing about.”

The fact that Ryou could not outright deny what Malik was insinuating was something that had clearly not gone over Malik’s head. He smiled wryly and backed down, content with this victory.

The next turn Ryou got fired from his job, and had to draw a new career card. He became a superstar which, despite the large salary, seemed unfortunately implicative of the fact that he was engaged in debate with Malik – who was currently held the scientist card.

“Look, if you’re not enjoying the game, we can do something else,” Ryou suggested. “It does have its problems, and I’m really not that attached to it.”

“Oh, it’s not that I’m not enjoying it,” Malik replied. Indeed, he seemed to have perked back up quite a bit. “I’m just trying to make a point. Despite the premise and how it’s marketed, this game really isn’t very lifelike at all.”

The way Malik lingered on the words, sadistic and pointed, was absolutely infuriating. Ryou felt almost defeated, running his hand over his forehead up past his hairline. Was that what Malik wanted – a game that was really, truly about life? _How could such a game possibly be fun?!_ Ryou thought, reflecting on the cruel cosmic joke that had somehow prompted the series of events that had Malik follow him to France after his forced exodus from Egypt. The series of events that had Ryou spend his Friday nights in the company of this man – a man that had unflinchingly seen him stabbed and comatose and utterly _used_ in service of a deranged revenge.

“Fine. You want _lifelike_?” Ryou muttered. “I’ll show you lifelike.” Ryou picked his car right off the game board, not bothering to memorise its position on the tracks. There were four pegs in his car – two blue, two pink – and he removed the two blue ones, leaving mother in the front seat and daughter in the back, sitting diagonally across from one another.

“Sometimes-” Ryou felt the anger bubbling in his voice. “Sometimes, in life, the people you love fuck off and die and leave you all alone!” He flung the car as hard as he could to the left. It hit the oven, and he didn’t watch as the pink pegs inside of it knocked loose and scattered across the floor. “And then-” Ryou continued, lifting up one of the remaining blue pegs – the father. “And then the people you have left decide they don’t actually care about you, and fuck off to Egypt or wherever else their work takes them.” He flung the blue peg carelessly to the side. “And there’s nothing you can do about it. Even if you have to walk the rest of the way all by yourself, easy prey for whoever comes along next, there’s nothing you can do about it. So you just have to say- Fuck them! _Fuck them_ for leaving me! And-”

Ryou’s heard his voice crack, and he buried his face in his hands as his self-consciousness rushed back to him. He wiped away the tears that were starting to form at the edge of his vision, and let himself be overwhelmed by the reality of what he had just done. He had thrown his mother and younger sister at the wall in effigy. Desecrated the only memory he had left of them. All his carefully cultivated kindness had peeled away- _Fuck them. Fuck them!_ – and revealed how deeply, terribly unforgivable Bakura Ryou was.

He felt himself plead to a spectre of Amane for forgiveness, imaged not the words, but the frantic motions of penning her an apology letter. But he couldn’t conjure up an image of her receiving it, couldn’t clearly recall what she had looked like. He couldn’t decide if it would be worse for her to forgive him – that he had thrown such an angel at the wall – or for her to condemn him. And it distressed him that the spectre had no innate impulse to tip the scale between these conflicting desires of his. The spectre was so indistinct there was nothing of her, save what Ryou could not decide he wanted her to be.

He was so selfish and egotistical, full of himself and hatred and bitterness and none of Amane. What kind of person could possibly forgive him? Could possibly like him, in this revelation that he was this ugly person who cursed the only people he had managed to love?

He peeked through the gaps in his fingers. Because he was weak and wanted the validation of a real human being.

Malik was watching him with eyes wide and shaky. They sparkled, full of thought and feeling, as they met Ryou in what seemed like utter admiration. “ _YES_!” Malik hissed in a wobbly tremor.

Ryou was taken aback, but Malik continued with manic frenzy:

“You are _absolutely_ right, Bakura! Sometimes life is like that! Sometimes they try to kill your brother, and you have to say- Fuck them. _Fuck them_! _Die_! _Leave_! And _fuck_ them for leaving!”

And before Ryou could articulate that this was _not_ what he had meant, Malik lifted up the whole game board and heaved it behind him with all his might. The game board spun like Frisbee, scattering game tokens and cards and fake money everywhere, until the corner hit the bay window with a thud and toppled it to the ground. It was followed shortly by the game box, and then a ceramic fruit bowl from further down the counter that succeeded in finally smashing through the glass to fall into the yard on the other side.

The sound of shattering glass seemed to snap Malik out of it. He blinked vacantly at the window, like it hadn’t quite behaved to the standards he’d expected, before turning to Ryou.

“Okay, not to cause a panic or anything-” Malik’s breathing became forcedly slow and even. “But I think I might have forgotten to take my meds.”

“Oh?! Do you think so?!” Ryou snapped at him, having forgotten to swallow the caustic sarcasm unspoken, having forgotten to let it burn his throat on the way down.

Ryou collapsed his face back into his hands again and pulled at his bangs. “I can’t believe this.” He glanced over at the shattered glass. “I am the worst. I am the worst house sitter ever. Isis and Rishid trusted me with the house. And I was supposed to watch it and make sure you didn’t puncture any more holes in it. Except I’m the worst, and I’ve failed. And Isis and Rishid are good people who deserve better. And now they’re going to be furious with me. And-”

“They’re not,” Malik reassured. He had swiftly snuck around the counter, and grabbed Ryou by the waist to lift him off the barstool. Ryou’s hands flew away from his face to try to grasp onto Malik’s shoulder or the top of Malik’s head, as Malik spun them place in the centre of the kitchen.

“My siblings like you. They’ll blame me for everything, like they always do,” Malik said plainly. And Ryou had no idea how he could be so flippant about what his siblings thought of him. But Ryou also couldn’t ask. His vision blurred – spinning, collapsing. He grasped at the black cotton tank top that covered Malik’s back, and flinched and let go when he felt the uneven scar tissue – once clotted with blood – under the fabric. He felt his knee and his side  hit the floor and, when he realised he wasn’t hurt, he managed to put together that Malik had done some kind of controlled fall. Ryou sat up, and blinked to clarity. He was on the kitchen floor now, with the layer of powdered sugar and flour, the two tiny pink pegs he had thrown at the oven, and Malik.

Malik was laid out across the floor, face down with his head in Ryou’s lap, and his arms locked tightly around Ryou’s waist. Ryou understood. He was gripping tightly into the ropey muscle at Malik’s shoulder. Even now that they weren’t moving, it seemed like it was all he could do to hold on.

“Don’t go home, Bakura,” Malik spoke into his stomach, like he was too embarrassed to look up. “Stay here. Even if you don’t do anything else, at least don’t go running back to that ghastly apartment so you can be alone at two o’clock in the morning.”

It would be a lingering summer night, one full of responsibilities. They had to clean up the kitchen and sweep up the glass. There was the half-eaten pile of crepes that still sat on the counter – he supposed it was nice of Malik to have avoided throwing them out the window in lieu of the fruit bowl. And they still had to make sure Malik took his antipsychotics. He didn’t know when Isis and Rishid would be back. It would probably be a couple hours, and far too late, before he could leave. Although Ryou thought it would be more than justified if he wanted to leave right now. He couldn’t seem to factor any of this into what was being requested of him though. _Even if you don’t do anything else-_ Ryou gripped Malik’s shoulder tighter, and held on.

“Stay with me tonight?” Malik said simply. He turned his face finally to look up at Ryou.

And because it was Malik that had asked him, and not just anyone, Ryou inclined his head and agreed.

..

_Fin._

**Author's Note:**

> The movie in question and the song in question are _Les Chansons d'amour_ and [De Bonnes Raisons](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8bQ5n0o71nE) respectively.


End file.
